


Swamp People

by actualite



Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Genderswap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:30:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualite/pseuds/actualite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of Salty and Ian, who live together in the swamp and hunt alligators.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swamp People

"There's somethin' boilin' there, Salty!" Ian says, pointing further down in the bayou. "Do you see it? Man, looks like a big fucker."

Salty slows the boat and guides it around a thick growth of water hyacinth.

"Didn't we hang a couple lines 'round these parts?" Salty says, standing up and peering out at the water. Sure enough, there are bubbles rising off in the distance, lots of them.

"Yeah. One over there. See?" Ian says, shading his eyes, though the sun is hidden behind some white clouds. There it is, the line they hung the day before, the piece of raw meat dangling far above the surface. "Damn, boy, that water done fell, di'n't it? Them bait lines is sittin' high. You're gonna have to throw the treble hook." He digs the hook out of the tackle box and ties it to the line, his small fingers working nimbly.

"Okay, but here, let me get a little closer," Salty says.

They pull up several yards from where the bubbles are rising, flowing and popping with the ripples in the murky swamp water.

"You ready?" Salty says, turning off the motor and bracing his feet. He picks up the hook, slipping the line through his fingers and getting a good amount of slack.

Ian picks up his .45 and checks that it's loaded. "Yep," he says. "Let 'er rip."

Salty swings the hook twice in a small loop, eyeing his target carefully, his eyelashes lowered a little in concentration. Then he throws it, a smooth, strong throw that sends the hook sailing out over the water and hitting the surface right where it should, deadly accurate. The hook sinks and Salty waits just long enough before tugging and looping it back up.

"You got him?" Ian says excitedly, hardly able to contain his anticipation.

Salty pulls and starts reeling in, and Ian can tell immediately when the alligator starts to pull back.

"Woo!" he whoops happily, cocking the gun and raising it to rest against his shoulder. "C'mon, bring him in!"

Salty's tongue pokes out and the muscles in his arm flex and ripple as he starts wrestling the alligator, bringing it right up close to the boat.

"He's comin' up," Salty says, and before the words are even out the alligator's jaws come snapping out of the water. As the alligator pulls on the line it slips through Salty's palm, leaving hot welts. "Damn, he got my hand! Raw."

"Ah, stay still, boy," Ian says, speaking to the angry alligator.

It yanks hard on the line again, rolling over and twisting, hard as he can, and Salty's foot nearly slips off the side of the boat but he regains his footing and pulls up hard.

"Don't get that line wrapped 'round your fingers," Ian says. Salty's already lost the end of one of his fingers when it got caught in a line two years ago.

Ian squints a little, trying to take aim, his finger poised to squeeze the trigger. The alligator pulls and Salty lets the line give a little, letting the alligator fight but trying to keep tight hold, and soon the alligator seems to lose some of his fight.

"Can you get a shot at him?" Salty grunts, trying to bring the alligator's head up high enough for Ian to kill him cleanly.

Ian doesn't answer, focusing hard through the rocking motion of the boat and the water splashing. Finally Salty prevails and pulls hard on the line, his body taut and sweat soaking through the back of his shirt, and Ian squeezes the trigger. There's a deafening report, the kick of the gun throwing Ian's shoulder back a little, and water gets in Ian's eyes, but when he lowers the gun Salty's smiling and dragging the body of the alligator up against the side of the boat to lift it in.

"This sucker pulled hard," he says happily. "Pulled like a big ten. Man, look at the size of him."

Ian sets down the shotgun and helps Salty haul the alligator into the boat, where it flops down, belly up. As Salty pulls the treble hook out from under the alligator's front leg Ian grabs the tape measure, the knife, and a tag.

"Ten feet, nine inches," Ian says triumphantly. "You done good, Salty."

"There ain't no feelin' like it," Salty says.

They tag the alligator and dump it in the box and Salty starts the motor again. They cruise around the swamp, stopping only to eat their lunch -- zebra cakes, apples, and some peanut butter -- and by the end of the afternoon they've got eleven, a good haul.

"At this rate we'll have our shop open in no time," Ian says.

"What you want for dinner?" Salty says over the roar of the motor as they make their way home.

"I could eat a big ol' bullfrog," Ian says. "Though we need to start using that okra in the garden. Maybe we could throw it in the gumbo from yesterday."

"I wanna catch me a catfish and throw it in the fryer," Salty says. "Then you can make the gumbo and we can celebrate our haul. Maybe get Kyle and Kelly over to help."

"Yeah," Ian says, his mouth watering. "Kelly makes a damn good crawfish pie."

"And Kyle always brings the grog," Salty says slyly, eyeing Ian with a smirk. Ian has gotten extremely inebriated several times off of Kyle's grog, always with very interesting results.

Ian smiles, looking away from Salty and putting his face to the breeze as they plow through the swamp, cutting through marsh grass and water lilies and past the giant Cypress knees. The swamp is beautiful in the late afternoon, the hazy light filtering through the trees and making everything look like magic. Three egrets fly by, low and close over the water, and Ian wonders if there is any place on earth more beautiful than the swamp.

They stop at the good fishing spot where the biggest catfish prowl the swamp bottom. Ian is good at spotting the alligators but Salty always knows the best fishing spots. He knows which ones have been fished out and which still house the fattest, laziest fish. He catches a big one, over fifteen pounds, and hauls it up into the boat where it flops slowly, lethargic even in its death throes.

"Man, he's barkin' like a goddamn seal, ain't he?" Ian says as Salty smashes it over the head to kill it quick.

Ian cleans and guts the catfish as Salty drives the boat back to the dock. Nolan is there waiting for them, and he inspects their tags and watches as Salty and Ian haul the alligators out of the boat to lay them on the bed of Nolan's truck. He'll cart them off to sell and bring their pay tomorrow.

Salty and Ian get in Salty's own truck, an old white Chevy with tires so high they come up to Ian's waist. Ian throws his gear into the bed and hops nimbly up into the cab on the passenger's side, and they drive home, stopping at Kyle and Kelly's on the way to invite them over for dinner.

Kyle and Kelly live in a bungalow on a few acres of swampland next to the house Salty and Ian have been living in, a house Salty inherited from his grandmother. They're the closest neighbors to Salty and Ian and at first Kyle had been wary of letting two bachelor alligator hunters hang around his wife, but he soon saw how it was with them. Thus they often came by to help Kyle and Kelly with their burgeoning turtle farm, which was also the business Ian wanted to get into once they had a little more money.

When they pull up next to the house they see Kyle working on the motor in his backhoe, and when he realizes they've arrived he straightens, wiping his hands on a dirty rag.

"What're you boys doin' here?" he says, smiling in greeting.

"We tagged eleven gators today," Ian says proudly. "And Salty just bagged him a fifteen-pound catfish. We was wonderin' if you and the wife wanted to come over and help us celebrate."

"Well, now, let's see," Kyle says. "Kelly!"

Kelly, who'd been sweeping the veranda, straightens, her lithe form silhouetted against the sunlight. She waves briefly, smiling, and when Ian sneaks a look back at Kyle and sees the way he looks at her he feels something like embarrassment and has to look away again.

Both Ian and Salty have wondered how a guy like Kyle got a girl like Kelly to come live out in the swamp with him, but she seems happy, consumed with work on the farm and, recently, with their twin boys, Cole and Conner. Salty and Ian had had to drive her almost 200 miles to the nearest hospital when they were born, because Kyle had been away on business and they came early. Because of that, and the friendship between them, Salty and Ian were the boys' godfathers.

"You got plans for dinner?" Kyle shouts.

"Nothing in particular," Kelly says, coming down the steps.

"Salty and Ian here are gonna fry up some fish and they want us to partake."

"And we was hoping you'd be s'good as to knock up a crawfish pie," Ian says shamelessly.

Kelly smiles. "Well, I guess I could."

"Great," Salty says. "You come on over when you're ready."

"And bring the grog," Ian reminds Kyle.

"Is this your celebration or ours?" Kyle says, sounding a little exasperated, but he's still smiling, softer than he ever was in the beginning, when they all first met.

When they get home Ian checks his turtle incubator, which is now full of baby Florida softshell turtles that just hatched. He's waiting for them to get big enough to sell, a very small turtle breeding experiment that he hopes he can grow into an enterprise as big or bigger than Kyle's one day.

Most of them seem to be thriving, though one of them is dead and Ian has to throw it out. He cleans the crate and feeds them while Salty gets started picking the okra out of their garden, which is less a garden and more a wild profusion of bolting vegetables.

Ian adds the okra and some more peppers, onion, celery, and shrimp to a pot of leftover gumbo from the day before. He sets it on to cook and then helps Salty fry the catfish.

An hour or so later Kyle and Kelly arrive at Salty and Ian's place, boys in tow. Cole and Conner are just at the age when they can turn themselves over, so Kelly sets them down on a blanket on the porch and lets them wriggle around on it while she helps Ian and Salty with the food. They sit down to eat at the table and chairs there outside in the shade of the trees, the evening sun slanting down on them and the air still hot and humid.

Kyle and Kelly each have one boy in their lap and they try to keep them from getting their hands in the food, though Kyle mostly gives up after a while. Kelly feeds them their own dinner there at the table while Ian and Salty enjoy Kyle's beer.

Soon Salty is drunk enough to insist on bringing out his banjo to sing "Amos Moses," his favorite song.

"If I had a son," Ian says to Kyle, his eyes watering slightly from the drink, "I'd name him Amos Moses. And he'd be the famoustest gator hunter ever heard of in the swamp."

"When Amos Moses was a boy," Salty sings, picking his banjo,

" _His daddy would use him for alligator bait.  
Tie a rope around his neck, and throw him in the swamp,  
Alligator bit him in a Louisiana bayou._"

"Would you use your son for alligator bait?" Kelly says.

"Sure thing," Ian says. "Toughen him up at that tender age."

"When you gonna let us take Conner and Cole out on the boat with us?" Salty says, his song finished, though he's still idly picking chords.

"I never said I'd let them go out on the boat with you," Kelly says, taken aback.

"They've gotta learn if they live in the swamp," Kyle says.

"Well. As long as they see a dentist regularly," Kelly says. "I don't want them ending up like you, Ian."

Ian smiles widely, showing off the gaps behind his left canine where he's lost a couple of teeth.

"That's what bein' swamp people's about," Ian says. "I couldn't wear what I like to wear in any of them big cities. But it's sure comfortable."

He's wearing cutoff camo overalls and nothing else, since he shed his galoshes after they came off the river, and his longish hair is covered by a bandanna with stars and stripes on it.

"Some underwear might be nice sometime," Kyle drawls.

Salty laughs and Ian sticks his hands into his overalls and pats his belly.

Kyle and Kelly help Ian and Salty clean up the table and the kitchen and then take the boys home soon after, and Ian and Salty sit down on the porch swing to enjoy the night. It's late enough in the summer that the mosquitoes have died down a bit, and the air is a little cooler, pleasant, even, coming off the swamp.

Salty reaches for the can of dip in his pocket.

"You won't take any of that if you want some tonight," Ian says lazily. "I ain't kissin' you with that tobacco taste in your mouth."

Salty pauses and then smiles, putting the can back in his pocket and leaning over.

He kisses Ian, all warm and slow and just a little bit wet and sloppy, his beard scratching Ian's face, and Ian turns around and lets Salty climb over on top of him, right between his legs.

Ian's hard in a matter of seconds and he reaches into his overalls to touch himself, but Salty won't let him, catching hold of Ian's wrist in that same tight grip that holds a line with an alligator on the other end.

Ian breaks away from Salty, panting and wide-eyed, always scared and very turned on by Salty's strength, the heaving bigness of him when he looms over Ian this way.

"C'mon, babe," Salty says, smiling down at him. "I'm takin' you to bed."

He stands up and bends over, throwing Ian over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Salty carries him into the bedroom and throws him down on the big old four-poster that's been in the house for over a hundred years. He reaches down to unhook the clasps on Ian's overalls, pulling them down and running his rough hands over Ian's soft, white little belly. Then he pushes the bandanna off of Ian's head, running his fingers through Ian's hair.

"Them lines done cut your hands up good," Ian says, picking one of Salty's hands up by his wrist and examining the palm, the dark calluses split from hauling the line today.

"I don't feel it," Salty says. "Only feel you."

Ian licks Salty's palm, a long, slow tonguing, and then draws the index finger into his mouth, getting it very wet.

Salty rolls Ian over on his side and reaches down, pushing into Ian and opening him up, the roughness of his finger as surprising and exciting as it always is.

Salty spits some more on his palm and slicks himself up, and then he pushes into Ian from behind, still holding onto Ian's stomach with his other hand, the tips of his fingers digging into the layer of fat there.

Ian gasps, his chest heaving.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Salty breathes. "Bein' in you is even better than huntin' any gator."

"Salty," Ian whines, the only word besides _God_ that he can ever say when Salty is inside him like this.

Salty pushes Ian over again so he's on all fours and pounds him, strong and relentless in seeking his pleasure.

When Ian comes he trembles all over, shaking and spasming everywhere and pressing his cheek deep into the pillow. Salty groans and just fucks him harder, fast and hot, both of them sweaty and heaving, the bed creaking and squeaking. It will fall apart one of these days, Ian thinks, and just then Salty comes inside him, falling heavy and slow like a tree felled in the water.

They lie there after, still sweaty and hot, and Ian can feel Salty's come dripping out of him. Salty's breathing slows and he's asleep in a matter of seconds, the smooth, easy rhythm of his breathing more comforting to Ian even than the sounds of the swamp--the crickets and frogs and occasional roar of the alligators.


End file.
